Fear
by lotzalove
Summary: "There came a moment when my heart momentarily stopped beating. And sometimes, I wonder if it has ever started again." The story of a victim, and the CSI's attempt to solve a cold case. This is my first shot at proper angst, and it will be pretty dark. Let me know what you think.


**I know, I know, I have three other stories to update. If you are waiting for an update for The Runaway, Keeping Up With The Lab Rats or Need You Now, I am sorry. They are coming, I'm working on the next chapter of The Runaway right now. But I decided to try some angst. Let me know if you like this? I tired something a little different, writing in first person and doing a lot of it in the present tense. This story will follow a victim and the CSI's as they try to solve a cold case. Review?**

Fear.

That cold terror that grips you when you hear footsteps behind you late at night. The dry taste at the back of your throat when you realise there is no way out. The way your chest lurches when you're in trouble.

There comes a time in everybodies life when their heart momentarily stops beating.

We all have fears. Fear of spiders, the dark, strange men, snakes.

There came a moment when my heart momentarily stopped beating.

And sometimes, I wonder if it has ever started again.

2:41 am. Once again, I have fallen victim to insomnia. I squeeze my eyes as tightly shut as I can, but I cannot stop them coming back. They settle around my head like a fog, taking any chance I have of getting any sleep. Demon thoughts. Swirling around my brain, polluting everything.

My mind is filled with words, stories, memories. The demon thoughts spread through me, forcing my eyes open, sending shivers down my spine. I part my lips, and consider screaming. Just once, an ear-piercing, bloodcurdling scream. A smile crosses my lips, as I remember my six year old self, having nightmares about monsters chasing me. I would scream, and mom would come running in and when she turned on the light and pulled me into her arms, the monsters would go away. I'd lie there while she kissed my tear-streaked cheeks. She'd whisper into my ear that it was alright now. And I would believe her. But a lot had changed since then.

Ten years had passed, taking with them the gullible young girl who had believed there was no problem so big that a hug from mommy couldn't fix it. Sometimes though, I can still feel it. Her hugs, her scent, her voice. I lift a hand to my cheek now, feel the scars that have permanantly marked my once innocent face. I blink my brown eyes that used to be full of hope and love and happinees. Now they're is nothing. Only hatred, pain and fear.

I sometimes wonder if I died that night. The thing is, it has been four years. And yet I'm still no closer to finding heaven, or even hell. I'm stuck in between, this vast expanse of nothing. Nothing but the demons. Yet although I have never felt alive since that night, whenever I take the knife to my wrists, in frustration, desperation, the blood still comes. Still flows out of me, bringing with it the painful knowledge that I am still alive.

3.28 am. The demons are still there. I shift around on the wooden floor. Here, the dust is sparse, and if daylight ever comes again, I am sure you will be able to see the imprint of where I have lain for so many days and nights, battling insomnia and the demons in my head. Once more, I consider screaming. Disrupting the dust particles which have not moved for four years. But I don't. Because I doubt I can remember how to speak. And I know there is nobody to hear me. Nobody can save me from myself. The demons are in my head. They take me through all my worst memories, all my darket moments, And of course, they replay the blackest day of my existence. The day when my heart stopped betaing.

I am twelve years old. My father and brother have gone out to a soccer game, my sister is at a friends house. My mother and I are making lunch. I am chopping the tomatoes, being very careful not to hurt my delicate fingers. My mother glances at me from time to time, and I can tell she is nervous by the way my shaky hands grip the kitchen knife. But she doesn't say anything, for I had told her I wanted to do it by myself, that I was a big girl. She is going out in to the garden, to dig up some lettuce. She asks will I be okay with the knife for a few minutes. I assure her that I am fine.

"Don't chop your fingers off." she tells me.

And I didn't. But I was not fine.

A minute later, I heard the scream. And then, the noise of the front door opening. And that was when my heart stopped beating.

It's all a blur after that.

More screaming, crying and yelling. Footsteps. Creaking floorboards. Blood. The smell of burning.

I remember turning around, swiping the knife I still held in my twelve year old hand. Swishing it blindly, screaming at the top of my lungs. I heard him cry out. A low voice, lower than I have ever heard on any man. And then I ran.

Hair blowing behind me, feet pounding against the ground. It was a broken run, my strides different lengths.I knew he was behind me. I could hear the footsteps echoing my own. His were in a pattern, a rhythmic beating on the mud road. That was bad. It meant he wasn't as badly hurt as I was.

I knew he was going to get me. And he did. I woke up in an old abandoned basement. It was grey, no windows or doors. The only way out was through a trapdoor in the roof. But it was too high for me to reach, and I couldn't even stand up. I still can't. I haven't been able to move my legs since. There is nothing but wooden floorboards, unpainted concrete walls, dust, darkness and a shiny silver blade I still held in my hand. It was stained with the blood of whoever had thrown me in here, left me for dead. But they had failed. Because I was not dead.

Instead I was being eaten alive from the inside out by the demons in my head. I was scarred, burnt, cut. I was torturing myself to the point where it became unbearable.

And as for my heart? I don't think it has beaten since.


End file.
